


Too much Sangria

by Ravatta



Category: Princess Bride (1987), The Princess Bride - William Goldman
Genre: Drunkenness, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Vomiting, vomit fetishism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 12:11:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7102846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravatta/pseuds/Ravatta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fezzik helps Inigo sober up in the only way he can think of.<br/>A shameless (but SFW) vomit fetishism ficlet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too much Sangria

**Author's Note:**

> As the summary says, this is just self-indulgent vomit wank material. If that's your thing, you're welcome to enjoy it with me.  
> I don't have a beta, but if you have free time I'd appreciate a hand with future works.  
> By the way, Fezzik actually did work in a circus at one point, in the book.

They agreed the operation would be easier with one sitting on the other's lap. 

Or rather: Fezzik decided that, and Inigo just sorta stared at him blankly, absolutely blackout drunk- like he'd been every day for the past months.  
The massive Turk had to fish deep in his memory for something to get his friend to sober up. He didn't like being around drunks. When he worked in the circus, the other performers would sometimes throw things at him when inebriated.  
He did remember that sometimes, when one of the acrobats or the lion tamer had too much, they'd hole up to puke, and waddle back to drink more.  
And his parents always told him alcohol was poison, and like poison, never to drink it (this they often said with big mugs of ale in their hands: that, of course, didn't count)  
so it made sense that, like poison, he'd cast it out. That worked for him, at least.  
He dragged a sturdy chair to the middle of the room and gestured for Inigo to sit across one of his massive thighs.  
There was a spark of recognizion in the spaniard's eyes and he obeyed, swaying like a sailor as he walked.  
He was a dead weight against Fezzik's chest when he managed to slump against him, and for a moment the turk thought he really was dead.  
Sometimes it happened, he heard. People who drink so much they just never wake up. And he couldn't let it happen to his best friend, not when they'd just been reunited against all odds.  
"Stay awake, please." He said.  
Then: "I'm going to touch you now, ok?" no response from Inigo, as expected, but he still wanted to ask.  
It was polite, and he wasn't about to touch the master swordsman in ways he didn't want to, he wasn't THAT stupid.  
Now, forcing someone to vomit is not as easy as it sounds. Fezzik had no idea where to start.  
He tried applying pressure on his friend's stomach but all that did was make him belch.  
He never got sick himself, and all he had to go on was flashes of parties at his hometown when he was a kid, and the inhospitable circus.  
A memory of the local bearded woman - a tiny thing who could drink grown men under the table- stood out, with her doing something with her fingers before being sick, but she was turned around, and he didn't see clearly.  
Hesitantly, he moved a massive hand towards Inigo's mouth, holding him still with the other so he wouldn't fall to the ground.  
He didn't know what to do. He was big and strong, but also dumb as a bag of rocks.  
Didn't matter. There was no one else around, so a big, dumb bag of rocks would have to suffice.  
He used his middle finger and thumb to hold Inigo's chin steady, gently pulling his mouth open with a log-like index. He had a couple false starts, but out of some drunken instinct he didn't want to investigate, his friend's reaction to having something in his mouth was not to bite down, but gently suck on it, which was all for the best- the spaniard had some sharp-looking canines.  
He fumbled around a bit, pushing his massive finger past Inigo's teeth and into the wet, tight canal of his throat. Fezzik's heart was beating really loudly now, and he didn't know what to do with the mix of terror and eagerness that was filling him.  
Then, the tip of his finger met something spongy, and he could feel Inigo's slender body go from slumping against him to arched and tense, every muscle shaking from the effort, his skin going slick with sweat.  
Fezzik wrapped one arm around his hip so he wouldn't fall off, and gently fingered that slick bead of skin again. The drunkard's eyes shot open, but it was clear he wasn't seeing anything. His throat clenched and tensed, hot liquid rising up and dribbling down the sides of his mouth, wetting his moustache and nostrils, but it was still mostly air, coming up in choked sobs.  
The hot liquid splashing against his finger was unpleasant, and he really feared he would choke his friend to death, but Fezzik persevered, pushing as far as it would go, until he hit the ridged, slimy back of Inigo's throat.  
Blinding pain flashed behind his eyes and he wrenched his finger out of the spaniard's mouth. Right at the base was a ring of white indentations, which began to redden and swell with bloood under his eyes.  
Inigo was all folded over, head almost between his knees and retching loudly. Still, both his hands were grasped tightly around Fezzik's foreharm, gripping him like a vice. Strings of saliva dropped from his mouth on the ground, mixing with his sweat.  
That's good, the turk reasoned. His goal was to make him sick, after all, and he was looking mighty unwell.  
"un..." Inigo managed to cough out, his voice hoarse. "un segundo-"  
Seeing an opening, the larger man all but threw him back and forced a finger in his throat again, while he was distracted and (probably) wouldn't bite it off.  
He did try though- out of instinct, at the very least, his jaw snapped shut around Fezzik's finger, and the pale indentations burst, blood slipping between the gap in the swordsman's front teeth.  
This time, instead of lightly touching it, Fezzik's finger hit that odd fleshy part again and pressed it against the back of Inigo's mouth and watched his eyes fill with a look of absolute panic. He had just enough time to pull back the hand- now streaked with red- and grab the spaniard by the hips to steady him. A spray of alcohol, bile and half-digested food shot past his lips, splashing against the ground.  
Judging the splatter not enough, considering how much booze the spaniard could handle, Fezzik shoved his finger back in his mouth, meeting it just as the man retched again.  
This time, it was thick, full bodied vomit rather than the watery spray from earlier.  
It ran down the turk's arm all the way to his elbow-he hadn't managed to pull back in time- the splash reaching almost to his knees, forming small torrents in the cracks of the floor.  
In-between trying to take a full breath and his body tensing with every heave, Inigo managed to grab a hold of his friend's shirt- and a lot of chest hair underneath- and held on for dear life. His eyes were bulging, his skin was pale as a sheet, and covered in sweat, tears and snot that mixed with the seemingly unending torrent of hot vomit. When he was drinking, the swordsman tended to forget about food, so despite globs of half-digested bread and some meat, all that came out was a watery, yellowish mix of stomach acid and alcohol that burned horribly on the way up.  
The smell was bitter and foul, and caused yet more retching.  
Inigo's body was shaking uncontrollably and covered in the acrid smell of stress sweat.  
Every retch caused the muscles in his body to tense, his thights jumping as if spring-loaded, and Fezzik had to almost throw him down on his hands and knees, holding him so he wouldn't fall face down in the growing puddle.  
After a time, the sounds of retching and wet splashes gave way to desperate gasps for air- and then, after it was over, quiet sobs.

The room was a mess. There were sprays of clear-yellowish vomit all on the floor, over their clothes, and the air reeked with it.  
Fezzik thought it wouldn't be wise to leave his friend alone in such a state, but he didn't want him to be embarassed, so he waited until the fit of crying had subdued before gently scooping him up.  
He didn't have time to carry him to bed- the man was already fast asleep, exhausted. Despite the layer of filth covering his skin, he looked almost childlike.  
There was much to do. Many things to talk about, many plans to make, and the hut really needed to be cleaned.  
But for the moment, Fezzik just sat still as a statue. And the sound of his friend's breathing and the warmth of his narrow form slumping against his chest- still alive after all- was all that he needed.


End file.
